Another Cliché Love Story // S. Rogers & B. Barnes

four

Bucky

It was the end of the day, and Bucky was in his last class: P.E.

Fuck what Tasha said, I can't make it through the rest of senior year like this, he thought bitterly as he ran, pushing himself to go harder. Coach had made them do the mile–the mile. On the first day of school.

Bucky pushed harder, thinking of all the days on the treadmill when he overexerted himself. He was determined to finish his run in under 8 minutes–a new personal record.

He passed Coach, who smirked proudly and shouted his time. 7: 35.

Not bad. Not bad at all.

Bucky slowed to a jog and then finally halted, locking his fingers behind his head and taking long, deep breaths. He was sweating profusely and wished to take his shirt off to relieve some of the heat encasing his body, but he couldn't do that. There were too many things on his body he wasn't ready to show the world.

A glance to his left told him that many of the jocks finishing up did not have that same precaution–they were confidently showing off their abs and arms, flexing at every poor girl that passed them. Bucky rolled his eyes.

He felt sweat roll down his forehead so he turned away from the crowd and pulled the bottom of his shirt up, wiping his forehead and soaking his already soaked shirt.

Great, he thought, staring down at the sad piece of fabric. Now I'll have to wash it, and it's not even the end of the first damn we–

He paused mid thought when he glanced up and saw the one and only Steve Rogers copying Bucky's action of wiping his face with the bottom of his shirt.

Bucky's jaw slackened as he stared at the boy's arms, chest, and abs.

He wasn't even upset by the only subtly defined muscles–he was more focused on the thin line of blond hair that led to a very pronounced v-line. His eyes traveled back up, a blush creeping up on his neck, and he blatantly admired Steve's larger arm muscles. He shamelessly raked his eyes up and down Steve's body, before they zeroed in on a tattoo lying on Steve's shoulder.

Bucky merely got a peek at the tattoo before Steve dropped his shirt back to its original position, and he had to scold himself for getting disappointed at the action.

He shook his head, taking a step back towards the crowd in order to head back to the locker rooms, but his body had other plans:

Bucky tripped over his own feet, falling forward. His hands shot out to catch himself, bringing his shirt up further with them. He inhaled sharply when his palms hit the ground, hissing at the pain.

He stayed there for a moment, trying to ignore the sting in his hands, before realizing his mistake. He quickly rolled over and tugged his shirt down as he stood up, eyes darting around to see if anyone spotted the many scars peppered up and down his abdomen. When he saw no concerned or wandering eyes, he let out a breath and proceeded to protectively tuck his shirt into the waistband of his shorts.

He turned around to get the back of his shirt into his shorts when he felt a piercing gaze on his skin. Bucky squeezed his eyes shut, praying to the gods that it wasn't who he thought it was as he turned his head, bracing himself.

Steve was frozen in place, his hand halfway through his hair as he stared at Bucky. Or rather, at Bucky's back. His ocean eyes slid from where Bucky knew a more prominent and ugly scar was to Bucky's own stormy eyes, and the boy's breath hitched in his throat.

Steve was pissed. He could tell by the way his blue eyes were particularly narrowed and darker than usual, and the way his chest was rising and falling rapidly.